


Demisexual

by novadiablo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Demisexuality, Discussions of sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novadiablo/pseuds/novadiablo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is demisexual</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demisexual

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote when I was a little bit out of it on steroids about a year ago but I don't mind it now, I'm not sure if I should continue though.

“John, I think we should have sex.”

It was at these words John realised he was only wearing a towel. Well, of course he knew, but it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind. He was waiting for his clothes to dry.

In his defence, he hadn’t expected such requests before his daily tea and jam.

“Well Sherlock, that might be a problem,” John said as he nonchalantly flicked the edge of his newspaper back up. He’d never quite mastered the regal fatherly-figure look. Possibly because he was not regal or fatherly.

“What?” Sherlock said in that indignant tone he adopts when his demands aren’t being met.

“Well you see, Sherlock, I’ve been in a stable relationship for a good four months now with a _woman_ who expects monogamy.” John explained in a slow, deliberate voice. Because, well, he had been. Sarah and he were going strong, despite the slight waver when he confessed that he was bisexual. He certainly wasn’t sleeping on the couch anymore.

“It’s for a case.” Sherlock explained, as though that made it all alright.

“Oh, well that makes it all alright then.”

Sherlock’s face lit up for a few milliseconds before he recognised the sarcasm in John’s voice. Then he smirked self-satisfactorily.

“That’s fine; I only wanted to find out what the normal response of a straight male’s flatmate requesting sex would be.”

John snorted. “Well you were never going to get that from me, were you?”

Sherlock’s face bent into confusion. “Why on Earth not? Of course I would.”

“No, Sherlock, for two startlingly obvious reasons. One, I’m very much not straight, so a cock up the arse wouldn’t be too repulsive, and two, not many flatmate’s shoot people for each other, so we don’t really qualify as normal.”

Sherlock was silent for a good half hour. John read the international news and the classifieds by the time Sherlock was reaching for his coat. “Maybe I just wanted to have sex with you.” He snarked before sweeping out of the door.

                                         

-

 

John pondered on those words for a long time – longer than he probably should have. Sherlock hadn’t said them with his usual light humour. He’d said them darkly. He was pissed off about something – about John not having sex with him.

But that was ridiculous – you couldn’t just expect a colleague to have sex with you – especially when he had a good thing going with his boss. Besides, Sarah was far more stable than Sherlock.

And besides, this whole self-conversation in itself was ridiculous – Sherlock was asexual. Obviously.

 

-

 

Sherlock was very confused.

 

This reaction was completely understandable.

 

After all, up until three weeks ago he believed he was a sociopath.

 

An asexual sociopath.

 

An asexual sociopathic consulting detective.

 

The only one in the world.

 

 

Now he’s just a demisexual consulting detective with no regard for the rules.

 

Still the only one in the world though.

 

 

It’s interesting that he’s got a name for it.

 

John-sexual just didn’t sound right.

 

 

But really, it made sense. It explained the odd urges towards Mycroft, Lestrade, even Victor. This needed to be tested.

 

-

 

He showed up at their house late and rather grudgingly, and when Lestrade opened the door he closed it again immediately. Sherlock heard muffled yelling and in a few moments the door opened again to his rumpled brother this time.

 

“You do realise it’s gone eleven and I was hoping to have sex tonight.” Mycroft said with all the severity of a seahorse.

His pupils were dilated and his shirt half unbuttoned and he really just wanted Sherlock to go away.

 

“I need… advice.”

 

If there was one way of gaining entry to Mycroft Holmes’ house it was to ask for help.

 

-

 

John began to get a little concerned when Sherlock didn’t come home that afternoon but instead of worrying he seized the moment and called Sarah over. He tidied up a bit but didn’t worry too much, if she was still with him now he wasn’t going to fret about the toes on the counter. They didn’t smell and might be dangerous to touch.

 

Sarah came over and they ate Indianand watched bad telly in John’s room. They also had sex, and it wasn’t mind blowing but it was still good. Comfortable.

 

A bit boring.

 

WOAH. Stop. No. Woah, woah, woah, woah, woah. John stared wide eyed at the telly, terrified Sarah would have noticed, but she wasn’t Sherlock. Aaaaand relax.

 

But seriously, where had that thought come from? Since when had sex been boring? Ever?

 

-

 

The first thing Mycroft had done was insist he get tested for injury. Lestrade leaned against the door with a frown on his face that had nothing to do with missing out on sex and all to do with concern for Sherlock.

 

He was family now. Mycroft had made sure of that.

 

After Sherlock had explained his escapades from that afternoon and said the word ‘demisexual’ they both knew it was John. Wonderfully oblivious John. They also both knew what the term meant - Lestrade, because he met people in the business, and Mycroft, because he was… well, he was.

 

But, for once, Mycroft was at a loss. He and Lestrade had been so simple. Work together keeping Sherlock not dead, politely ignore Lestrade’s loving glances until the day realised he felt the same, half-shag in the back of the kidnap car, fully shag everywhere else, change Britain’s gay marriage laws, get married, buy a ridiculously extravagant house, work together keeping Sherlock not dead.

 

So easy. So enjoyable.

 

“You knew!?” Sherlock exclaimed when Mycroft told.

 

“Of course, brother. The consulting detective thing? Not interested at first. Now you’re married to it. I remember the moaning when you first took up the violin. It was dreadful. Now you won’t put the thing down. The skull? The things we got up to those times.” At this point Sherlock glanced at Lestrade.

 

“Oh, he knows,” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “And he’s not about to arrest us for it.”

 

But he still didn’t know what to do. Other than arrest Sarah for something and shove Sherlock and John into a room naked and hope for the best.

 

“Flirt with him,” Lestrade piped up, after being silent the whole time. “Let him know you like him, and that you’re interested in pursuing a relationship. Unless you’re not, in which case suppress the urges because John’s not a casual sex guy.”

 

Mycroft loved Lestrade’s moments of complete normality sometimes. It really did help having a person who knew real people stuff around. He was also a good shag. And had a nice smile.

 

-

 

Sherlock had a limp.

 

That was the first thing John noticed when he woke up. He was about to ask why when he realised he hadn’t eaten his jam or drunken his tea yet. He wasn’t making that mistake again.

 

Sherlock was reading one of John’s medical textbook when John asked. He looked up casually. “Oh yes, I forgot to ask, next time you go to the surgery can you please book me in for an appointment with another doctor?”

 

Then Sherlock looked right back at his book. John stood there for a long moment and then mumbled his okay and wandered out the door.

 

-

 

Sherlock ass hurt and he felt like crap. John was all awkward around him now. He deduced that he’d had sex with Sarah last night; however, he wasn’t in his usual post-coital good mood so something was playing on his mind.

 

John reappeared with gloves and lubricant. “If you wait for an appointment you could do permanent damage. I’ll check for you now, and if there’s anything wrong I’m taking you to emergency.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t really say no to that, so he turned around and bent over the side of the couch, shucking down his trousers as he went. John donned the gloves and gently prised apart Sherlock’s cheeks, taking in the bruising, and noticing the bottom of scratches on his back. Pushing up Sherlock’s shirt, he took in the scratches and made a mental note to clean them with antiseptic. He tentatively checked that area around the puckered hole and then slowly made his way in. He deliberately ignored the way Sherlock was reacting – it was normal, he told himself. His reaction wasn’t, but he’d explore that later.

While he was there he would inspect Sherlock’s prostate, John told him, and Sherlock didn’t mention he was too young to a check, because John politely didn’t mention the way Sherlock’s back arched and how heavy his breathing and his cock had gotten.

John stripped off the gloves and fetched the antiseptic; absent-mindedly stroking Sherlock’s hip when it stung.

 

Sherlock had his pants back up when he spun around, grasped John’s shoulders and kissed him on the mouth quickly. Then he strode awkwardly up to his room.

 

-

 

John shouldn’t be there, he really shouldn’t.

 

Really, though, how many people can just walk past Sherlock Holmes standing naked in front of his mirror stroking himself?

 

Correct, player one. The answer is none. John stood behind him, could feel the heat from Sherlock’s back through his shirt. There eyes met in the mirror and didn’t part, but John didn’t catch Sherlock when he fell into ecstasy.

 

-

 

Anderson was sneering thoughtfully at the fungi in the unused teapot while Donavan pulled out a box of plaited pubic hair from the fridge tentatively. They all knew they wouldn’t find any drugs (not that there weren’t any, mind, just that they wouldn’t find them), so the makeshift drug squad took their drug busts as a chance to scour Sherlock and John’s house for all of the weird stuff they could find.

 

Sarah was reclining on the lounge with her feet in John’s lap (Sherlock had been holed up in his room), and she looked disdainfully at Anderson. John’s hands skimmed over her toes and Sally Donavan attempted to pull the knife out of the bookshelf.

 

“Honestly, John, I don’t know how you put up with him. Is he this gross in bed?”

“He probably does experiments with the riding crop,” Anderson supplied.

“Excuse me,” said Sarah commandingly, “I’m relatively sure I’m the only one sleeping with John Watson at the present time.”

“You didn’t strike me as the naïve one,” Sally shot back.

“Donavan, can you please refrain from ruining my colleague’s relationship while you ruin my flat, thankyou?” Sherlock piped up from the corner where he was leaning against the wall next to Lestrade with his hands in his pockets, comfortable as could be. ‘Colleague’ though, that was new. That was the term John used when he didn’t want people thinking he and Sherlock were a couple.

 

“Sherlock, while you’re standing there doing nothing, you can do the dishes.”

“I did the dishes last night!” Sherlock protested.

“No, that was three weeks ago.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but got distracted preventing some unnamed officer spilling stomach acid on himself.

 

-

 

**Picture Message**

**From:** Sherlock Holmes

 **Received:** 13:22

 

John tried not to choke on his sandwich and immediately closed the image. At Sarah’s inquiring look he merely waved it away with a ‘pubic hair results’. He put his phone under the table and reopened it, and there was no denying the fact that Sherlock’s erect cock. In John’s chair.

When John gets home Sherlock is curled up on the lounge, hair damp.

“Please don’t send me a picture of that ever again Sherlock. It was worse than the time you sent the toes.”

Sherlock face crumpled into confusion for a moment before it lit up.

“Oh shit, that means he never got it!” And he ran out the door.

 

John didn’t see Sherlock that night.

 

-

 

John tried not to look when Sherlock started touching himself through his trousers. In Sherlock’s defence, John wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been curiously watching Sherlock’s frame. In John’s defence, Sherlock knew he was watching, he could have stopped anytime.

 

It wasn’t obvious whip-out-your-cock-and-crank-it, it was caresses through pyjama pants, it was long and drawn out and it was in the shadows. John had gotten through three episodes of Doctor Who before he heard a whine from Sherlock.

 

He deliberately didn’t look and Sherlock got up for a shower not long after.

 

-

 

John was confused.

 

This reaction was completely understandable.

 

He was attracted to his not-so-asexual flatmate all of a sudden.

 

In fact, that was bullshit. He’d been attracted to Sherlock from the moment they had met. In a very platonic way. In a wow-this-man-is-a-brilliant-genius-who-finds-trouble-wherever-he-goes-and-now-my-limp-has-gone kind of way.

 

But now John is attracted to him in an I-want-to-ride-him-until-I-can’t-walk way. It has been a slow transition, but he’s been so busy not dying and diagnosing colds and having sex with Sarah and being in denial that it has hit him like a tonne of bricks.

 

-

 

Sherlock was breathing very heavily down his neck.

 

John tried not to imagine them in a situation like this where they were not being chased by massive murderous maniacs and fails. He can feel Sherlock thinking the same thing.

 

Suddenly mouths are being pushed together and hands are running up sides and the slide of tongues is so delicious that when Sherlock got pulled away by a maniac John was so annoyed he clocked him ‘round the head with the butt of his gun and spun Sherlock around and kissed him again. Then he was dragged by the scruff his neck into a bin and a lot of other bad stuff happened and then good stuff happened too and Lestrade gave him a one armed hug when they found him alive which was nice.

 

-

 

Sherlock stared sceptically at the bottle of lubricant in his hand. He was naked on his bed with his arse splayed with his fingertips.

 

He squeezed some on his fingers and began.

 

-

 

Sherlock kissed him now. Kissed him good morning, kissed him when he made him tea, kissed him when he got milk and wrote a nice blog post and when John got him his pen.

 

John did it too, longer ones when they were watching a movie, a hug accompanied by a kiss when Sherlock did something human, a kiss on the forehead when he wrapped Sherlock in his scarf.

 

He was dating a girl and kissing his flatmate.

 

In fact, he was fucking a girl and having a romance with his flatmate.

 

This was… unexpected.

 

-

 

This was… unexpected.

 

John was romancing him.

 

And he liked it.

 

He was an active member in this romance. He would whisper things in John’s ear as well, and stroke his hair. Sometimes they would curl up together for no reason.

 

­-

 

This was bad.

 

This was very bad.

 

That was the only thing that was running through John’s mind when he realised he’d been wondering what Sherlock’s finger would look like with a ring on.

 

-

 

 

Of course, it wasn’t all smooches and smile, Sherlock was still bloody Sherlock. Infuriating, uncaring, uncouth, death-defying, I’ll-do-experiments-on-your-dinner-if-I-want-to, bloody Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock,” Said John in his angry voice.

“Yes, John?” Sherlock replied moodily from the sofa.  
“Why are there toes in my orange juice?”

“You don’t like orange juice.”

“That’s not the point, Sherlock, you can’t just do shit like that.”

 

Oooh, John swore. Sherlock stood up immediately.

 

“Oh stop whinging John, it’s not like you were going to drink it anyway.”

“That’s really not the point, Sherlock.” He had the tone he had when Sherlock had told him he didn’t care about the people who were dying when Moriarty got to them.

“Then what is the point, John?” Sherlock asked, snappishly, “Because you’re not making it!”

“That you should care about people, Sherlock!” John yelled back before he caught himself. “But why would you?’ John said quietly and Sherlock stomach dropped. “Why would you care? You have no reason to care. You’re an asexual sociopath with an IQ through the roof and nothing to look forward but your next puzzle, and you almost had me convinced you cared.”

“I DO CARE JOHN!” Sherlock roared and John, who invaded Afghanistan on his own, shrank back. “That’s the problem! I care because of you! Everything was fine and everything was working and then you came along and screwed it all up! It was working!”

“Oh, shooting cocaine and alienating everybody was working, was it?” John replied snarkily.

“It worked for me!” Sherlock bellowed, whipping around from across the room, fixing a stare of hatred on John that he will never forget. “And now,” Sherlock’s voice calmed, dropped, “and now I’m just a demisexual dickhead who has to put up with the fact that the only person I will probably ever feel anything akin to love for is dating a boring female doctor. So yes, John, why should I care?”

 

John’s eyebrows rose so high it was comical. “You love me?” He said, almost breathlessly.

‘Obviously’, said the look Sherlock threw him as he walked to the door. But he never got so far as putting his coat on.

 

The impact of the two bodies against the wall made the whole room shake. Sherlock, for possibly the very first time in his life, was utterly and completely surprised. John’s mouth was on his and really they’d done this so many times so why was it so electric? But then John was tugging off clothing and Sherlock was dragging them to the couch and it was all so bloody confusing but fantastic at the same time, and they fell and somehow landed with some grace, John over Sherlock and their mouths still covering each other, and John was kneading Sherlock’s erection through his pants and all Sherlock could do was grasp John’s backside.


End file.
